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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485756">Shadowed In Summer</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart'>Still_beating_heart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shameless (US)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And history, Ball Field Smut, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Sexual Content, Smut, canon warnings apply, smut with feelings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 08:41:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,552</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_beating_heart/pseuds/Still_beating_heart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Gallagher and Mickey Milkovich have some ball field interactions in the future of their marital bliss.</p><p>------------</p><p>When Mickey starts to turn the corner towards home, he takes a few quick steps, reaches for those hips that are imprinted into his hands, spins him the other direction and waits for the smirk to turn his way, “oh yeah?”</p><p>“Mmm hmm,” right hand sliding over his asscheek before he relaxes his grip.</p><p>“Alright,” it’s mostly mumbled, reaching in his pocket for a smoke and light.  </p><p>It’s been awhile.  But it still sounds the same, feels the same, is wrecked with emotions that neither of them have really ever come to terms with, but one thing is certain.  The lust is thicker than any of the others.</p><p>Watching Mickey scale the fence, his heart throwing itself at his ribcage.  The reactions his body has always had to Mickey.  Never replicated with anyone else.  It was stupid to even try.  </p><p>------------</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ian Gallagher &amp; Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Shameless ▶ Ian Gallagher / Mickey Milkovich</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Shadowed In Summer</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shadowed In Summer</p><p> </p><p>Ian’s in a mood.  A mood he has yet to decide.  He’s not certain if he wants to fuck something, break something, or fix something.  The only part he’s certain of, is what the something is.</p><p>He reaches out, both hands on solid shoulder blades and gives a shove.  Not enough to knock off his feet, just enough to knock off balance and elicit the response he was craving, “the fuck Gallagher?” with risen brows and a finger flying through the air as he rights himself on the sidewalk in front of Ian.</p><p>Ian shrugs.  Keeping his face a blank mask.  He’s going to let Mickey figure out what he wants.  Since he isn’t sure himself.  And since Mickey is his moodometer lately.  </p><p>He falls silent for awhile.  Nothing but the thud, thud, thud of Mickey’s work boots on the concrete in front of him.  The swish of his clothing as his arms swing their way through his swagger.  Fuck, that ass.  It is, Ian bites his lower lip, falls back a few more steps and fully indulges himself on the view.  Mickey’s talking, his hands gesticulating his narrative, but Ian isn’t listening.  He normally listens.  He just doesn’t feel like it today.  </p><p>When Mickey starts to turn the corner towards home, he takes a few quick steps, reaches for those hips that are imprinted into his hands, spins him the other direction and waits for the smirk to turn his way, “oh yeah?”</p><p>“Mmm hmm,” right hand sliding over his asscheek before he relaxes his grip.</p><p>“Alright,” it’s mostly mumbled, reaching in his pocket for a smoke and light.  </p><p>It’s been awhile.  But it still sounds the same, feels the same, is wrecked with emotions that neither of them have really ever come to terms with, but one thing is certain.  The lust is thicker than any of the others.</p><p>Watching Mickey scale the fence, his heart throwing itself at his ribcage.  The reactions his body has always had to Mickey.  Never replicated with anyone else.  It was stupid to even try.  </p><p>Mickey’s on the ground on the other side by the time Ian even steps forward, fingers deftly slipping through the chain-link.  His brows are up, lips pursed, taking the last drag off the smoke and flicking it towards the ground.  Ian watches his thighs through his jeans, tight enough to know exactly how those dense muscles look beneath the thin worn fabric.  The image of those muscles flexing, wrapped around Ian’s hips sets his mouth watering.  </p><p>“What’re ya waitin’ for?” the night is getting dark.  But he can still see every important line of that man’s face.  Even with his eyes closed he’d know every line, dip, curve, and pore.  Sight isn’t nearly as important as all the other sense memories bound through the years together.  </p><p>Cocky prick.  His shirt is rising over his head before Ian even has his feet on solid ground, “coulda let me…”</p><p>“Sick of waitin’ for your ginger ass.”</p><p>Ian’s shirt is quickly in the grasp of his FUCK U-UP hands.  The things Ian has seen those hands do throughout the years.  And to see them on the hem of his shirt, or the buckle of his belt, or the button of his jeans; those are his favorites.  The anticipation of what’s to come.  Sure, the sight of those fingers closed around his cock is fucking incredible, but nothing can compare to the anticipation of it all.  Never knowing when he’s going to throw Ian a curve ball.  A decade together, a decade since that very first time with the tire iron and the fist fight.  A decade and every time is the first time.  </p><p>The cotton between Ian’s face and Mickey’s disappears and his eyes are flooded with the sparkling blue of the sun off the surface of Lake Michigan at sunset.  And fuck, he hears himself groan as Mickey’s hand slides down his chest, stomach, resting teasingly on his belt, “c’mere fucker,” because the breath of space between them is much too far.  Sometimes Ian likes to tease right the fuck back and use his full height to hold him off.  Knowing Mickey won’t stand on his tip-toes to get some tongue action, he’ll just use his demanding brows and smirking lips, knowing Ian will give in eventually even when they’ve just fought over something stupid and he wants to be a pouty bitch about it, he’ll always cave into that look.  And that demand that shoots straight to his cock every time it’s made.</p><p>He still thinks he might want to fuck something up, so he crashes.  Mickey knows what he’s getting right now.  He knew it was soon as Ian’s hands landed on his shoulder blades on the sidewalk.  They’re going to fuck like they’re fighting.  With all the grunting, hissing, and choked gasps they can muster.  </p><p>His teeth clack into Mickey’s and Mickey bites down on the tip of his tongue when it enters his mouth.  Just a tap of a bite, a silent agreement to everything about to happen.  Sure, with a place of their own it’s not like they have to fuck here at the dugout anymore.  But that’s not the point, and it’s not fear of getting caught or any kind of exhibitionism, it’s just a place among all the places they’ve made memories, that holds a kind of feeling like none other.  This was the first fucking time it felt like something more.  Even if they were both too afraid to admit it.  He remembers pressing his lips against the constellation of freckles on Mickeys’ shoulder blade that night, the ensuing kick to the shin, but it was a start.  And it was a beautiful start.  One he wouldn’t trade for anything.</p><p>Back here.  Then.  After.  With so much.  So many things there were no words for.  And no way to tell him.  All the things he deserved to hear.  It was back here.  That night with the taste of metal on their tongues and sticky in the space between their lips.  But it was more.  It was love.  It was understanding.  It was support.  And they were both scared.</p><p>And the many times since they’ve been here.  During the day without the undertones of sex, want, and need.  Here during the day where Mickey coaches the neighborhood little league team.  Full of kids who just don’t want to go home.  Home for them is what home was for Mickey when he was a kid.  Ian’s certain the team has less to do with ball and more to do with just being somewhere safe, somewhere to be a kid.  And for Mickey?  Maybe it’s the little slice of childhood that he never had.  </p><p>The countless times after the world has faded to night and the kids are long gone and the parents are long gone and the only presence in the dugout with them is a few beers, a few easy words, and maybe a blow job or two.  </p><p>Tonight, tonight it’s different.  It’s a mood that Ian can’t place and he doesn’t want to place.  He wants aggression and passion and all the things they’ve always been for each other.  And when it’s all over he wants to walk home with his calloused hand wrapped in his husband’s, maybe fuck him again, and sleep with his face against the back of his neck.  </p><p>But for now, he just wants to take.  Take it all.  His hands are quick on Mickey’s jeans.  Snapping his belt open and yanking them down, barely losing the lip contact only to trail to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, down his chin, nudging desperately at his jaw to get his head tilted back, mouthing at his Adam’s Apple when it bobs with a hard, lustful swallow.  Mickey’s hands are scrabbling, heavy touches fluttering across Ian’s back, shoulders, gripping the back of his head.  Tightening his hold to press down.  Down he goes.  Chest, filmed with the light sheen of summer sweat, sweet and salty as Ian’s tongue spreads it down his center, over to toy at a nipple as his hands drop to hips and shove him back against the wall.  </p><p>Cornered and pinned against a wall.  Exactly where Ian wants him.  And he’s not arguing.  He’s not resisting.  And it’s so fucking sexy to have that trust that Ian is already a frenzied mess in his pants.  Pants.  Those will have to go.  </p><p>His hands fall to his belt where Mickey only started the job, as his lips trail around Mickey’s lower stomach, purposely avoiding any contact with his straining cock.  A heavy sigh of disgruntlement falls out of his lips and lowers itself to where Ian is squirming out of his jeans while dropping to his knees on the cement.  Kicking at them haphazardly, focus on something else entirely.  The way Mickey’s abs move when he breathes, deep and wanting.  Yearning for more touch, for Ian to take what he needs.  And give Mickey what he needs in the process.</p><p>Without any further ado, or any warning, he sinks his mouth down on Mickey’s cock.  Listens to the startled choke that slips past him in the cooling night air.  His hand lands flat on Mickey’s belly, keeping him tight against the wall and feeling with his fingers the stutters in his breath, low in his belly as Ian swallows around him a few times.  Fingers tightening in Ian’s hair, but not pushing or holding his head down, just needed to grasp, hold, feel. </p><p>Free hand fumbling for the lube from his jeans that are mostly discarded.  Scraping his taut lips up the shaft of Mickey’s cock, stopping when it’s just the head of it in the warm wet heat of his mouth, dropping his hand to tear off the tab and smear some lube on his fingers.  As his slippery fingers trail their way over his balls, slipping behind them for that delicate skin he sinks down to the base of Mickey’s cock.  The groan is ecstasy.  Making Ian’s dick jump in response and his finger press inside to be rewarded with an open mouthed pant.  </p><p>He swallows the moan from his own mouth, hollowing his cheeks and working a second slippery finger in quickly.  Mickey’s right leg jumps, so Ian shifts, letting him rest a thigh on his shoulder.  Fuck, he loves it when he gets twitchy this soon in the game.  Trembling will be next.</p><p>Twisting his wrist to the grunted huffing noise above him, pulsing his lips around Mickey’s cock, letting the drool that’s collected between them start to slide out when he moves his head in the rhythm of his fingers, the in and out drags of both of them.  He’s hit pay dirt and he knows it by the tightening of the fingers in his hair, the fingertip shaped dents in his shoulder and then the releasing of it all.  Fingers on both hands spreading open, splaying out and the punched out moan from his lips as his body starts pulsing in Ian’s mouth and around his fingers.  </p><p>Knowing Mickey is in orgasm haze and sharp clarity of oversensitivity now, he doesn’t waste any time.  Getting to his feet quickly, grasping his husband’s thighs to yank his feet off the ground.  Even though he’s gone mostly dead weight with the aftershocks of orgasm, he’s still with it enough to grab overhead for something to hold half his weight on, wrapping his legs tight around Ian’s hips and muttering something that Ian can’t understand but he can translate to permission.  </p><p>Lining himself up and pressing in, quick and fully.  Mickey’s head falls back against the wall, making a thump that Ian knows he’ll hear about later.  Or at least see FUCK gently rubbing at the spot for awhile while his brain tries to sort out why and when of it.  </p><p>Hand on hips, knowing by the way his body was reacting to the prep work, that he won’t last long.  He doesn’t want to.  </p><p>Burying his face in Mickey’s chest, nipping at the thin skin but not biting, not sucking any marks.  Just a presence, a pressure to know he’s there and he’s his and he’s not going anywhere.  In case that wasn’t already known by all the other moving parts of the equation.  His tongue darts out, following the line of his hard pec, finding the soft nub of his pink nipple.  </p><p>A shudder rips through Mickey’s spine and Ian takes it as the invitation to thrust.  Leaning back to watch his face.  Mouth fallen open, flushed pink and gorgeous in the night’s barely there light.  The sweat is shining in the reflection of the city’s lights.  There’s a single glistening string of saliva clinging to his upper lip when his tongue darts out to wet them, gone dry in the panting and grunting.  Silent screams of pleasure glued to the roof of his mouth, bitten back in his throat and Ian is certain when they get home he’s going to free those screams.  Smash the headboard against the wall and shake the entire room around them.  If Mickey will let him.</p><p>He feels a smile rising on his lips, his hands tightening grip on hips, driving upwards into his body.  The heat and weight of him perfect in Ian’s grasp, against him, and around him.  His back being rubbed raw by the concrete wall he’s pressed against.  He’ll bitch about it later.  But right now, it’s just adding to the pain, pleasure of being overstimulated and oversensitive.  Ian takes in the sight of his arms, raised above him and grasping the bar with white knuckles.  Every line of muscle taut and strong.  Kissed by the lights of the nighttime and shadowed in Summer.  </p><p>Ian’s face meets his chest again as he snaps his hips, driving his point, holding his hips steady and driving again.  There’s no sense in announcing the impending orgasm.  They both know each other’s tells.  Have for a decade.  His rhythm will stutter out, and Mickey will grind down against him, squeezing him with the tight tease and promise of forever yours.  The ground will feel like it’s lost and the sky too close, the world will swirl into too many lights and too much noise until it all just fades to black and pale and Mickey.  </p><p>When he looks up and sees Mickey looking down at him with a smirk on his face, he jolts into him again just in case he didn’t already feel all that pulsing ripping through him.  Letting the overly wet, slick, sloppiness of it announce the remains of his orgasm.</p><p>“Gee thanks firecrotch,” his voice is gravel and dirt and it feels so good going down that Ian can’t help his smile.  </p><p>“No problem,” circling his hips for the last chance he has before his dick goes soft and slips out.  </p><p>Getting an eye roll and a vise in retaliation to force him out.  One brow up in victory, but Ian promises, “I’ll get you again later.”</p><p>“Countin’ on it,” one arm releasing the bar, shaking out the kinks and tapping his cheek as Ian lowers his feet to the ground.  Sliding into a kiss, hot and dirty but sated for now.  For now.  At least.  There’s always a later.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Stay healthy friends.  You know the drill.  Share it, light it on fire, fuckever floats your boat, kudos necessary :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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